


I Would Not Stop for Death

by RewriteTheRules



Series: I Would Not Stop for Death [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Earlier first meeting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Watson in Afghanistan, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock thinks John is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RewriteTheRules/pseuds/RewriteTheRules
Summary: When John left for war, he promised he would come home. When he didn't, something inside Sherlock shattered. Sometimes he's okay. Except when he isn't. Pre-ASiP, established Johnlock





	I Would Not Stop for Death

**Author's Note:**

> This just would not get out of my head until I wrote it down! Basically, Sherlock and John knew each other before John's tours of duty. While in Afghanistan, he is missing presumed dead. Sherlock doesn't cope well. I'll most likely continue at some point because I can't just leave off where it is. Please let me know what you think and thanks so much for clicking on!

Sherlock hoped that Mycroft would forget what day it was, even if he couldn't. 

After all, he'd just moved into a new flat. There were cameras to be set up, recorders to be planted. And besides, Mycroft was the heartbeat of the British government. He had more important things to worry about than if his little brother was going to go off the deep end. 

That's what Sherlock told himself, anyway. And even if it wasn't true, it kept him distracted long enough to whittle away the first hour of loneliness. 

John would have loved this place, he decided. The central nervous system of London, right in the middle of everything. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, she'd make all over him just like she did Sherlock. They would have the master bedroom on the first floor, and maybe turn the one upstairs into a lab so Sherlock's experiments wouldn't be all over the kitchen table. But John wouldn't mind either way. He would have gotten a kick out of it. Eyeballs in the fridge, skin samples on the duvet. Corrosive acids in the toilet. John would make a big show of pretending to be annoyed, but they'd laugh about it later. They always did. 

John's voice in his ear kept him from drowning in the fantasy. "Not good," he warned. "If you start all this again, it'll be a danger night for sure. You won't get a moment's peace. God knows who Mycroft will send to babysit you this time." 

Sherlock dropped the box he was carrying and something shattered. He didn't bother to check and see what it was. "I'm clean," he growled. The ghost of a laugh tickled the hairs on his ear.

"And how long do you think that's gonna last? They can't all be tens, Sherlock. Lestrade will do his best, but you'll still get bored."

He didn't bother unpacking anything else. Whatever energy he'd had was all but erased. As if on cue, Sherlock's expensive new toy buzzed in his pocket. The number that flashed across the screen was familiar and unwelcome. He didn't waste time on pleasantries. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Just checking in." 

A muscle ticked in Sherlock's jaw. "I didn't think you were in the habit of calling to socialize." 

"Neither, would it seem, are you," Mycroft said carefully. "Why, we've hardly spoken in two months." 

"And here I thought you'd be pleased." 

Mycroft sighed. "No games this year, please," he huffed. "If you behave, I'll let you have your pick." 

John's laughter played with his hair and twisted his insides. "What'd I tell you?" he smirked. Sherlock shook his head and John's image disappeared in wisps of smoke. 

"I'm not a child," Sherlock growled. "I don't need to be minded after." 

"Think of it like a date," Mycroft suggested. "You have heard of those, haven't you? When two people who enjoy each other's company -"

"Whose company would I possibly enjoy?" 

"What about Dr. Hooper?" Mycroft tried. "Or that Detective Inspector you've taken a liking to, Lestrade, was it? I could always send in one of my own associates, if you'd prefer."

Sherlock scowled. Molly would be the least irritating of the group, but he would be able to get Mycroft's henchman to quit faster. "Send whoever you want," he bit back. "They'll enjoy a nice view of the surrounding area unless they know how to pick a lock."

Mycroft's annoyance seeped through the phone. "What did I say about mind games, Sherlock?"

"I do not need a nanny!" Sherlock exploded. "Do not come near this flat, or so help me -"

This time, John's chuckle was warm and highly amused. "Right," he murmured against Sherlock's neck. "Great work convincing him that you're okay." 

Sherlock shivered. "I'm fine!" he shouted, and he didn't know who he was talking to but it was clear that neither his mind nor his brother believed him.

"You're not fine." 

It sounded worse when John said it. As for Mycroft, Sherlock thought that if he sighed any more he'd deflate. "Someone will be there at the top of the hour," he said. "Please decide and do let me know." 

"Go to hell." 

He could practically hear the smile in Mycroft's voice. "All in good time, brother mine." 

The line disconnected. Sherlock threw the phone across the room with very little thought for how much it must have cost. 

John clicked his tongue. "He didn't have to get you a cell phone," he said. "You could at least be careful with it." 

Sherlock was about ready to tell John what he could do with that phone if he had a mind to, but the familiar footfalls of Mrs. Hudson kept him quiet. Mycroft might not have set up his equipment to spy on him yet, but he doubted if his landlady would feel comfortable letting a madman live in her apartment. And talking to people who weren't there qualified - to some - as madness. "Sherlock?" she called, and she was very close to the door now. She swung it open with a flustered smile. "Sherlock, there's a man at the door for you, he says he's with the," she lowered her voice to a whisper. "With the police." 

Sherlock didn't have to throw open the curtains. He knew whose car he'd see parked on the street. "Tell him to go away," he told Mrs. Hudson somewhat petulantly. 

"But Sherlock -"

"Whatever case he's made up to occupy me isn't worth my time." 

When Mrs. Hudson did not turn to leave, Sherlock spun back around and shooed her off. "What are you still doing here?" 

She hesitated. "I know it's not my place," she murmured. "But if you need someone to talk to -"

John whistled, low and annoyed. "Here we go."

Sherlock practically pushed her out. "Yes, I'll keep that in mind, thank you." He shut the door before she could fix him with a look that might make him feel guilty. He smashed the deadbolt into the locked position and fell against the wall with a hard thud. 

"That wasn't nice," John pointed out. 

"No one asked for your opinion." 

Sherlock's phone rang from across the room. He thought very seriously about ignoring it, choosing instead to push the heels of his hands into his eyes and forget everything else existed, but if Mycroft thought something was wrong, he wouldn't hesitate to send in a team to break down the door. 

He answered without checking the number. "What?" he snapped. 

"Sorry," a soft voice murmured. "It's just, you told me to call when I could let you back in to experiment?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Molly?" he asked.

"Yes?"

He decided to probe. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Tuesday."

"No, do you know what the date is? To me?"

"No," Molly said. "Sorry, should I?"

For the first time all day, a small smile turned up the corners of Sherlock's lips. "I'll be right there," he said. "Just have to grab my riding crop." 

"Your what?"

***

Going through Bart's was a necessary evil. 

He hated the journey through the hospital. Every single time, all he could see was John. Where they'd first met. Every snack machine they'd staked out during breaks. The lecture halls, the corridors, they were all haunted. Ghosts of conversations that still lingered even after all these years. 

He didn't watch where he was going, lost as he was in his thoughts, until he ran headfirst into Mike Stamford. "Whoa there!" the shorter man laughed. "Alright, Sherlock?"

"Fine," he said. "Just down to see Dr. Hooper." 

"Right," he smiled. He was happy. Far too happy. "Hey," he seemed to remember something, and Sherlock knew what it was before he said a word. "Given anymore thought to the position I told you about?"

"Not at the moment," Sherlock said, and he tried to sidestep Mike to no avail. "Just found a place in central London," he tried. "I've been focused on that recently."

"Central London?" Mike asked. "And you can afford that without a job?"

"Special circumstances," Sherlock said curtly. Mike laughed again. 

"You could find a flatmate, couldn't you?" 

The thought actually did get a rise out of Sherlock. "A flatmate?" he chortled. "Who the hell would want me for a flatmate, Mike? I'm the most difficult man in England." 

"Whatever you say," Mike hummed. "I was just off to lunch. Do you want anything?"

"No, thank you."

With a salute, Mike was off, and Sherlock continued down to the mortuary.

***

The experiment itself might have been dull but at least some good came from it. 

For one thing, mercilessly beating a corpse with a riding crop did wonders for his anger. 

And for another, he couldn't get a signal on his cell, which kept the rest of his morning blessedly quiet.

"So," Molly asked after a bit. "Bad day, was it?"

If only she knew. 

The lipstick was a bit obvious, if Sherlock said so himself. He was thick about that sort of thing, but he knew interest when he saw it. But better to keep her in the dark. To let her think that he was just oblivious. Because if he turned her down, he'd have to explain why. And he really didn't think he could talk about John. Not today. 

When he made his escape to go upstairs, it wasn't out of some desire to play with the chemicals in the lab, even though that was, of course, a welcome reprieve. He just didn't want to be anywhere else. Anywhere that would remind him of - 

Two quick knocks. Sherlock glanced up long enough to see Mike Stamford in the window. He rolled his eyes and returned to his work. When the door opened he asked, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine." For which he was thankful, of course, but he might as well send the text to Lestrade while he still thought it was important. 

"Obviously," he stammered. "Been trying to call you the last forty-five minutes!" 

Before Sherlock could ask what was so important, John's voice floated in from the hall. Not now, Sherlock wanted to say. Not here, not when I need to focus! 

"Mike," John sighed. "Where in God's name are we going?" 

Hearing John was not surprising. Sherlock has been hearing John's voice in his head every day for three years. It wasn't even surprising when John walked through the door. The visual hallucinations had happened before, though not for some time. 

No, the surprising thing was when Mike turned to look at John, too.

Sherlock dropped whatever it was he was holding. It fell to the ground and probably broke, but he didn't care. Because frozen in that spot, looking just as surprised as he was, was John. John.

John John John John - 

"Sherlock?"

Still in his uniform, clearly just off a plane, leaning heavily against a cane in his right hand. Sherlock had imagined John many ways since his death, but never like this. Jaw unhinged, he pivoted rigidly to Mike. "Do you see him, too?" 

"Jesus, Sherlock," John moaned, and his cane clattered to the floor as he surged forward. Sherlock was gathered in his arms a second later, all the air squeezed out of him and trembling hands clasping around his middle. Sherlock looked over John's head at Mike, still not able to move. "Mike?"

"I'll leave you to it," Mike whispered. He was gone the next moment. 

"You're here," John whispered into his lapels. "Thank God you're alright."

Sherlock tried to speak but his throat had gone dry. John was still shaking. "You can't do that again, got it? God, I thought we were gonna find you in a drug den somewhere." 

Though it was more a rasp, Sherlock finally managed, "What?"

John looked up, still hanging onto Sherlock's front, eyes bloodshot. "You berk," he mumbled. "It was meant to be a surprise and you disappeared! Mycroft told me about - and when we couldn't find you we thought..." he took a shuddering breath. "Thank God you're alright." 

"Me? You're the one -" Sherlock croaked. He didn't realize he was crying until the tears started to drip down his chin, one at a time. "How are you here? How are you alive?"

John buried his face in his shirt and held on like he was afraid Sherlock would slip through his fingers. "It doesn't matter," he shook his head, his voice thick. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock, I swear to God." 

Sherlock couldn't stop the crack in his voice. "You said that before," he reminded him. He still hadn't managed to hug John back, frozen as he was with shock. 

"Yeah," John said. "I did. And now I'm home." 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and hugged John back for all he was worth. He couldn't get close enough to the man - every inch of them that could touch was touching. He breathed in the familiar scent of John's shampoo, felt the day-old stubble against his neck, memorized the way the shorter-than-he-remembered hair curved over John's ears. His nails dug into John's shoulder blades, but John didn't seem to mind, and Sherlock never noticed that John was doing the exact same thing to him. They were two puzzle pieces, wonky edges, but they still fit together perfectly.

After years of loneliness, Sherlock could finally breathe.

***

Dr. Molly Hooper picked up on the third ring. "Hello?" 

Mycroft sat up straighter. He cleared his throat. "Dr. Hooper?"

"Yes, speaking. Who's this?"

"This is Mycroft Holmes," he said. "I trust you're with my brother?"

"Yeah," Molly said after a moment. Mycroft could hear the giggly smile in her voice. "Sherlock? I was just bringing him coffee, actually." 

"I presume you're at St. Bart's Hospital?"

"Mhm," Molly hummed. "Up in the labs, I'm just outside the door." 

Mycroft clicked his tongue. How long had Sherlock been left alone? "Before you go in," he said smoothly. "Tell me what he's doing." 

"Sorry?" 

"Sherlock," Mycroft specified. "Look in the window and tell me what he is doing." 

"Oh," Molly adjusted the phone against her ear and there was a pause before she said, "He's sitting at one of the tables. Looks like he has a headache or something. His eyes are closed, and he's got his fingers pressed against his temples. Is he okay? Like is this...normal?"

"Do not go in until someone is there to meet you at the door." Mycroft hung up and smashed his phone against his desk. 

He almost missed the days when a 'danger night' meant drugs. Drugs he could identify. Drugs they could treat. But there was nothing, nothing, worse than waking Sherlock Holmes up from his mind palace just to tell him that his best friend was dead all over again.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A world away, a soldier woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's that! Thanks for reading and I hope to hear from you! Might have been a bit OOC but it was fun to write nonetheless :) Have a lovely day/night :) Lots of love <3


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